


The Devil Inside Him

by Pawsbutton



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Matt Murdock, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt Matt Murdock, Loss of Identity, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, no beta we die like men, there may be a relationship eventually, these tags are a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pawsbutton/pseuds/Pawsbutton
Summary: Matthew Murdock died in the building collapse.The Devil did not.





	The Devil Inside Him

He held his right fist in his slightly less bloody left, rubbing his bruised knuckles with his thumb, tasting the blood on the air. It was a coppery metallic taste he was far too familiar and comfortable with. He mumbled to himself as the floor of the abandoned apartment complex creaked obnoxiously loud when he rocked back and forth.

This place was a haven for the homeless— a haven for him. The others who lived in the building were nice enough. They kept to themselves and didn’t ask any questions, which was exactly what he needed. He didn’t know what happened to the past landlord or the past residents. He didn’t care either. What he cared about was the roof over his head and the privacy he got here. Plus, here he had no record of existence and no bills to be paid.

The first people to squat here must’ve made up some rules for the next few dozen to do so too, because there was a system of sorts. Almost everyone got their own room, especially him. Even when they were overcrowded he lived alone. He thinks he scared the others off at some point. Probably the performance he gave when someone tried to steal from the blind guy.

Granted, everything about the building set his teeth on edge. The walls were so incredibly thin there might as well have been nothing there at all (for him at least) and there were no locks on the doors. The smell of drugs was only occasionally overwhelming, but always present; the most prominent source being the room beneath him.

Heartbeats were a lie detector, but they also told so much more: who was high, who was asleep, who was the PTSD victim having a panic attack two floors and five apartments to the left above him. Sometimes a heartbeat within the building would stop and a body would be dragged outside the next morning. 

He used to try to remember how he ended up here, although he’s not entirely sure at this point. Maybe he fainted outside the entrance exhausted one night? Maybe he had wandered the streets for so long and so hungry, he had stumbled inside at the mere smell of food? Was there any point in knowing? At one point he gives up trying.

What he does remember is this: when Midland Circle collapsed, he left a part of himself buried under the rumble. Not just his blood, not just a few chunks of flesh— but his very soul, his very identity.

Ironically, he went to where he was raised to heal. He regained some things, but not all. The explosion took its toll, leaving him permanently deaf in one ear. It was devastating. He couldn’t fathom living. Sister Maggie told him it would come back. It never did.

The discovery of the subway lines was thrilling: it was a new way to see and he was a master of learning new ways to see. He built off of that, using the vibrations in the ground instead of the air. Jumping was a new challenge, leaving him double blind when he left the ground, and when he did a flying kick, he had to leave his left ear completely unobstructed. It was a weakness and he hated it. Eventually he ended up carefully cutting out the soles of his boots, leaving enough there that no one would notice without a close look.

When he beat up the kidnappers and tried to get himself killed, he didn’t return to the orphanage. Instead he stumbled around the city, too ashamed to go back and see the look on Sister Maggie’s face. He was lost (both figuratively and literally) for a long time.

The same day he managed to trace the newspaper and feel his obituary, Wilson Fisk was released. 

It was easier than it should have been. The agent asked for his key card and he knocked him out without hesitation. A quick elbow to the temple that sent the poor guy falling to the ground. He wordlessly stepped over the unconscious body, pocketed his gun and continued.

One might have called it a deep, cold, chilling rage that enveloped him, but to him it was a numbness— a nothingness that spread from his chest to the tips of his twitching fingers. The ride to the penthouse ended with a soft ding. To him it was the sound of a gunshot. 

Just inside was Wilson Fisk, sitting in an entirely too small chair and facing a blank wall. The man’s heartbeat sped only slightly when he realized he wasn’t alone, calm as ever, “I thought you were dead.”

”I am.” Then he raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Sometimes he tells himself he should have felt something killing a man for the first time. Remorse? Maybe even regret? But all that was left was that nothingness. And just like that, something deep inside him shattered.

The news of Fisk’s murder spread like wildfire. Tracing bold inked letters on the front of newspapers revealed the headlines, listening closely to conversations confirmed it was all people spoke about, and he was even able to catch a couple news reports in a local café with a radio. But not one person thought it was Daredevil.

He was almost disappointed but definitely not surprised when Karen and Foggy continued to believe he was alive. He’d notice them looking for him, sometimes subtly glancing at a blind man in a crowd or not so subtly and putting up missing person signs. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t let him go, especially when he already had a funeral service. 

One day someone had come up to him and asked him about the signs. They thought he looked like the guy on it, and after denying them he decided he needed to contact Foggy. It was important for him to make it ambiguous— not quite a full answer but not nothing either. Occurring to him you can’t exactly walk up to someone and say ‘I’m here, but the person you know is dead’, he settles on a note.

At this point in time he was staying under a bridge with a handful of other homeless people and requested one of them write it. (Being blind, he had some troubles with penmanship.) Then, he trailed behind Foggy on his way home and slipped it into his bag. It would have been painless if he wasn’t able to hear Foggy cry later that night.

It’s been months since then and he hasn’t heard anything else from his old friends. If he thinks about them for too long, his eyes will get hot and he forces himself to think of something else. It’s weak.

Tonight, or rather this morning, was his first time out as Daredevil in nearly a year. He rocks himself on the dusty floor of his apartment, knees pinned to his chest, chin resting on his knees. He picks at the fresh scabs on his knuckles, smearing more blood onto his already crimson hands. Vibrations travel under his feet, telling him his neighbor is shifting in their sleep and he closes his eyes to listen through his good ear. Even with everything happening around him in the city, he feels alone— empty.

He remembers the note. It was simple, concise, and said everything one might needed to know:

 _Matt Murdock is dead._ _The Devil is not._

Suddenly, he realizes it was never a note for Foggy. It was a promise to himself.

He digs his nails into his hand, breaking skin, and feeling the burning anger of the Devil inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopty doopty it’s the nooty section!  
> 1) I avoided and will avoid using Matt and Matthew Murdock to enforce the loss of identity  
> 2) I referenced two other fanfics on ao3 both concerning DD  
> -Double Blind with double blind (no shit)  
> -None So Blind with the penmanship  
> Go read both of those right now  
> 3) Is it cheesy to end the first chapter with the title?  
> 4) Other chapters will hopefully be longer and not so exposition-y  
> Please comment your thoughts :)


End file.
